Sin Killer

by Larry McMurtry

  13

  Restraint was not her way . . .

  THEY trusted me to keep them safe, and I failed,” Pomp said, in a voice so low that Tasmin could scarcely hear him, though she stood close to his side in the woods a few hundred yards below the camp. They stood over the remains of the friendly bear cub Andy who, with his sister, Abby had been caught by Pomp just before the battle in which Pomp was so badly wounded. Andy had been clubbed to death, skinned, and cut up, no doubt by the same Indians who had killed the other freed animals, once they wandered away from the enclosure where they had been penned. Pomp himself, once he recovered, had freed the animals—buffalo, deer, antelope, elk, and moose, all half tame and no doubt easy prey for the Indians, who were coming to the camp to get in a last bit of trading with William Ashley.

  “Damn the Indians . . . they should have seen they were pets!” Tasmin said—Pomp’s sadness affected her so deeply that she had to say something, even though she knew there was no logic in her complaint—why expect Indians, who lived by hunting and whose erratic food supply had usually to be earned by exertion and danger, to pass up easy meat? Pomp himself, as the young animals were captured, expressed certain doubts about the semidomestication of these wild beasts, which Drummond Stewart had wanted to put in his Scottish zoo. He knew that the caution wild animals needed would not be easily regained—Andy’s death made the point emphatically.

  “I know there are zoos and game parks and such in Europe, but out here I think it’s best just to let the animals be,” Pomp remarked. “Once you interfere with them they forget how to be wild.”

  As you yourself have, Pomp Charbonneau, Tasmin thought—then she took Pomp’s face in her hands and kissed him, a thing she had been wanting to do for weeks and weeks. They were alone in a deep glade, what better chance could she have? Restraint was not her way—she wanted to make Pomp not look so sad. It flitted through her mind, as she drew Pomp’s face toward her, that she had done much the same when she could no longer resist the urge to kiss her husband, Jim Snow, now several weeks gone on his scout to the south. He should know better than to leave me, Tasmin thought—Jim knew she was a passionate animal, strong in her appetites; he also knew she cared for Pomp, though perhaps without suspecting in quite what way she cared—she had hardly been certain of the nature of her feeling herself. Jim and Pomp were friends; they had hunted and camped together often. Yet their natures were very different, Jim hard, Pomp soft, and the one not necessarily better than the other. Tasmin had learned to align herself more or less comfortably with her husband’s hardness, even if it involved sudden slappings and moments of frightening violence, but Jim’s rough masculinity was not the only kind she could respond to. Pomp’s shy softness had a deep appeal too. She had thought much about Jim and Pomp and come to the conclusion that she was not likely to find complete sufficiency in any one man. She had seen herself that life was very uncertain—William Drummond Stewart had been a virile man a month ago and now he was as dead as Charlemagne, as was her brother Bobbety. The insistence with which her father, Lord Berrybender, pursued even his most vagrant appetites—which had once seemed the most abysmal selfishness—now, in the light of life’s risk, made more or less good sense. Perhaps it was better to honor one’s appetites while one could. Had Pomp been clearly happy, at ease in his soul, Tasmin felt she might have chosen to let him be; but he wasn’t serene, there was sadness in his eyes— so she stopped thinking about it all and kissed him. If Jim Snow beat her for it or killed her for it, so be it! Her kiss, when she first delivered it, was tentative, soft, shy—for all she knew it was Pomp’s first kiss. She kissed his mouth, and then, still soft and shy, kissed his cheeks, his eyelids, his throat just once; and then she kissed his mouth again, a longer kiss this time, if still a soft one. Pomp did not withdraw; she even felt his breath quicken a little, and that slight hastening of breath gave her confidence that she had not misread him or forced on him something he didn’t want. Pomp did want her kiss, and even returned it a little, if awkwardly—it was no polished seducer she was dealing with. She drew back and looked in his eyes, in which she saw a startled, boyish uncertainty—perhaps a little fear even. He looked at her alertly, as if trying to pick up an odor or identify the call of a distant bird.

  “I’ve come to love you—I won’t lie—I can’t help it!” Tasmin said. “I hope you’re glad.”

  She seized his hand and twined her fingers in his, waiting—it seemed that her whole future depended on this soft-souled man who had not yet learned to lust.

  “I’m glad—it’s all new to me,” Pomp said. “I’m not as good a kisser as you.”

  “Don’t be a fool, you’re lovely, you’re fine!” Tasmin burst out—in her relief she spoke so loudly that she quickly looked around to see if anyone from the camp might be close enough to hear.

  Then she kissed Pomp again, longer and with a little more diligence this time, lingering over his mouth. She moved a little closer, locking her arms around him, aligning her body with his; at this Pomp stiffened a little, not the erect stiffening of the aroused male— it seemed merely that he was surprised that anyone would want to be so close to him. She lay her cheek against his breast, listening to him breathe. Just knowing that he wanted her kiss was heaven—she asked nothing more at the moment. She wished she could stand close to Pomp, reaching up now and then for a kiss, all day—and yet even as she enjoyed their light embrace she knew that the larger world and its demands were not far to seek. Her child, Monty, would soon be wanting to nurse—motherhood could not be scanted for long, no matter how keenly she wanted to stay in the quiet glade with Pomp, nuzzling and kissing. She had feared that he might mention Jim—but he hadn’t.

  “Have you never had a woman? I must ask,” Tasmin said, blushing. Pomp merely shook his head—if anything his silent confession made her feel all the more shy. Jim Snow had been no virgin when he came to her, and she herself had been well prepared for the conjugal business of marriage by her vigorous couplings with Master Tobias Stiles, her father’s head groom. She and Jim, of course, had had their share of awkwardness and confusion when they first met, but these had to do with clashing personalities; physically they had been primed for one another, evidence of which was that Monty had been conceived in their first blissful weeks.

  Yet now it was Pomp’s deep physical shyness that she found so delicious—out of respect for it her kisses were delivered softly—she did not want to frighten him.

  “I’ve seen chambermaids do this, in Germany,” Pomp admitted. “The prince had thirty servants and the young maids were always getting in love.”

  “Why, you little spy,” Tasmin said. ‘And what did the sight of all this kissing make you feel?”

  “Sad,” Pomp admitted at once.

  “Sad . . . but it’s merely life going on,” Tasmin told him.

  “Because I thought no one would ever want me, “ Pomp admitted.

  “But you were wrong. Many women will want you, although I don’t intend to let them get past me,” Tasmin informed him.

  Pomp gave a tired shrug. “My mother loved me so much that when she died I tried to die too—I was always springing fevers,” he remembered.

  Tasmin remembered the night when they were walking to her tent by the icy Yellowstone, when Pomp had admitted that he rarely felt lust. His polite neutrality had irritated her then—now, in the warm summer, with her arms locked around him, she thought she understood a little better. She had wanted, even then, with her husband not two hundred yards away, to kiss him, to push him toward life, to plant him solidly into it and not allow him to be tempted by the other place, death, the mystery that enclosed the mother he still yearned for.

  Frightened for a moment, she kissed him again, more deeply this time.

  “Those German girls, those maids and cooks, just weren’t bold enough,” she said. “You’re a shy one, Pomp. You need a shameless English girl like me, who ain’t afraid to grab you.”

  Pomp gave her a shy smile, tempting Tasmin to t
he longest kiss yet, a kiss that seemed to remove them from the normal sphere of daily activity and lifted them to a place where there was only one another. But it wasn’t merely daily activity that Tasmin wanted to banish—what she wanted was for him to be tempted by her, not by the other place, the place where his mother was. Yet even after this melting kiss, the shadow remained. Happiness, even the extreme happiness she felt when he accepted her kiss, was no barrier to danger. She felt that she would have to be very alert, very forward, so that this young man, her darling, her breath, would not misjudge some dangerous moment because of his old temptation to the shade. Even as she held him and kissed him she wasn’t sure that he was quite won.

  “You must watch yourself from now on,” she told him solemnly. “You mustn’t be careless—you mustn’t get killed. It would break my heart. I fear we’ve many dangers to surmount before we reach Santa Fe.”

  “Yes, and from what I hear, Santa Fe’s as dangerous as any other place,” he said. “Most of the Mexicans would as soon kill us as look at us.”

  “Just don’t get killed—will you promise?” Tasmin asked, holding his cheeks in her hands so he would face her.

  “We mustn’t talk about it—it’s bad luck,” Pomp said. For a moment he looked scared. Just then, in the distance, Tasmin heard Monty wailing. Monty was fascinated by horses—perhaps he had toddled too close to one and been kicked, or else cut himself with a knife someone had carelessly left in his path. Little Onion was the soul of vigilance where the toddlers were concerned, but the little boys had already proven ingenious at injuring themselves, no matter how closely their keepers watched them.

  “Damn it, what’s wrong with that child now?” Tasmin wondered, annoyed at having her idyll interrupted. “I suppose we can’t just stand here kissing forever, although I’d like to. Come with me—I’ll feed the hungry brat.”

  “You go—I want to bury what’s left of Andy” Pomp replied. “Besides, I’d be shy around the boys yet.”

  “You mean you think it shows—that we’re in love?” Tasmin asked.

  “The boys don’t have much to do but gossip and pry,” he reminded her. “I guess most people like to gossip and pry. Back at Prince Paul’s castle the servants did so much gossiping they barely had time to get the meals cooked, or the horses groomed.”

  Tasmin was reluctant to stop holding him—she kissed him one more time.

  “What a nuisance society is—even this society, which is hardly elevated,” she said. “I think we deserve a little more time to ourselves, with no comment encouraged.”

  Pomp smiled.

  “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world,” he told her. “People are going to have something to say about everything you do.”

  “Oh hush—how many women have you seen, that you should pay me such a compliment?” Tasmin retorted, though she blushed. What with the Indian attack, and her nursing, and her mothering—all the general press of life—it had been weeks since she had had a moment in which to consider her looks. On the boat up the Missouri she had amused herself in all the usual ways: redoing her hair, trying on dresses and jewels, looking in the mirror, worrying that the American climate might affect her complexion. She had also had a bit of time to study herself at Pierre Boisdeffre’s trading post. But once on the trek, she had no time for looks— it seemed to her that looks might as well be left out of the equation until they returned to civilization. What she saw the few times she did look was a sunburned, windburned, freckled girl, scratched by weeds and bushes and so pressed by the need to keep her baby well and her husband satisfied that looks hardly seemed worth worrying about. For the moment, energy seemed to matter more, and so far, her energies were still equal to the hundred tasks of the day whether the tasks were motherly, wifely, or miscellaneous. Still, that Pomp considered her the greatest of beauties was very satisfying.

  “I expect there are fine beauties in London or Paris or even New York City that might dispute that comment,” she told him. “Of course, there are few of them out here—I suppose I profit from an absence of rivals.”

  Pomp smiled again—in the distance Monty’s wails had intensified.

  “I’ve not paid many women compliments,” Pomp said. “I’m just now starting—with you.”

  “Oh, damn! What could be ailing that child?” Tasmin complained. “I hope you won’t be long at your tasks— I want you to come back soon.”

  “I expect your sisters will be curious, too,” he reminded her. “They’re always watching, those girls.”

  “Yes, and they’ll be slapped, unless they’re careful!” she declared hotly, before she turned away to see what could be the matter with her sturdy child.

  14

  Tasmin had guessed it: horses!

  TASMIN had guessed it: horses! A large one belonging to William Ashley had stepped on Monty’s toe. Little Onion had already made a poultice for the damaged digit, but Monty still sobbed and choked, great tears rolling down his plump cheeks, while the two other toddlers, Talley and Rabbit, looked on in shocked wonder. Seeing his mother, Monty immediately flung out his arms to be taken, and Tasmin did take him, though of course there was not much to be done for a mashed toe that Little Onion had not already seen to.

  “Little boys should avoid big horses, if they value their toes,” Tasmin told him; she then sat down behind a wagon and gave him the breast, which he attacked greedily, as if, by sucking noisily, he could avoid his hurt. The wagon was theirs, purchased from Ashley by Lord Berrybender—it was already half packed with a mélange of their possessions. The Berrybenders, like the trappers, had been inching toward a departure for several days. But with the Ute danger passed, life in the Valley of the Chickens was on the whole pleasant and no one could quite work up to resuming the hardships of the trek, though William Ashley had hurried off finally that very morning, going north to catch a steamer at the mouth of the Yellowstone. He had sold Lord Berrybender four horses and what little champagne remained.

  Tasmin had marched through the trappers without giving them a look—a mother hurrying to her injured child was not likely to attract much comment. In her opinion the mountain men would have needed to be a good deal more expert in the ways of women to suspect that she had been enjoying the first blushing kisses of her new, unsanctioned love.

  In fact the mountain men were mainly debating which way to go once they left the rendezvous: south with the Berrybenders to Santa Fe, north with Ashley to the Yellowstone, east into the Black Hills of the Sioux, where there were said to be many beaver still, or west over the mountains to California. Tasmin and Pomp were often together anyway—all the mountain men reckoned that Pomp would be dead but for Tasmin’s nursing. If he was sweet on his beautiful nurse, that would be only natural. None of them had ever known Pomp to take a woman—the common opinion was that if he ever did take one, he would be unlikely to start with Jim Snow’s formidable wife. In the end the mountain men who decided on Santa Fe did so at least in part because it meant they’d have the Berrybender women to look at—in their minds no small benefit.

  Tasmin had hoped for a few minutes alone, in which to soothe her child and collect her thoughts, but even the modest privacies attendant on the performance of bodily functions were not always easily secured in such a large camp. The bear cub, Abby who liked to inject herself into every crisis, followed Tasmin around the wagon and thrust her cold nose into Tasmin’s hand. It was a lovely, clear day—near the river Tasmin saw her father, in argument with Vicky Kennet. Vicky’s violent threat to tear his throat out if he touched her had caused only the break of a day or two in the old lord’s pursuit of the long-legged cellist.

  Tasmin was just shifting Monty, a little boy who would soon be passing from hunger into sleep, onto the other breast, when his two little friends, Talley and Rabbit, followed the bear cub and stood watching the proceedings solemnly, as if waiting for a chance at the teat themselves.

  “Go away, boys . . . you’ve got the wrong ma,” Tasmin commanded. “This fountain
will soon be empty.”

  A moment later Little Onion, who had been drying jerky, swooped over and picked up a little boy under each arm; she carried them, unmoving as logs, back around the wagon so that Tasmin could finish her nursing in peace.

  She had scarcely gone when Tasmin’s sisters came trailing over, Buffum looking subdued and Mary as always, looking combative.

  “Pa’s determined to have Vicky—I doubt it will be long before he wears her down,” Buffum remarked.

  “Mr. Bonneville fancies her too,” Mary remarked.

  “Mr. Bonneville is said to have twelve wives, which would mean little time for Vicky,” Tasmin said. “Perhaps he merely likes her fiddling.”

  “The pater is tired of Milly” Mary informed them. ‘And he does know Vicky’s ways.”

  “Vicky’s merely a servant, you know,” Buffum reminded them. “Servants finally have to do what masters say—even if reluctantly.”

  “Where have you hidden Pomp?” Mary asked, giving Tasmin one of her not-quite-sane but nonetheless penetrating looks.

  “He’s burying the other bear cub,” Tasmin said. “The Utes made short work of that friendly little beast. Pomp feels badly about it.”

  “Our Pomp’s too softhearted by half,” Mary replied. “I suppose you’ve been soothing him, Tassie, in your insistent way.”

  “Suppose all you want,” Tasmin replied. “Why don’t you go flog your fat botanist and leave the rest of us in peace?”

  “Such a careless brat, Monty,” Mary said. “Letting a vast horse step on his toe.”

  Tasmin made no answer. She did not propose to talk to Mary a skilled interrogator who proceeded by indirection but, in the end, usually managed to extract whatever kernel of information she was seeking. It was better to ignore her than to outwit her, although Tasmin did mean to outwit her when it came to her own relations with Pomp. Since Pomp had not reappeared she thought she might use the time, once Monty finished nursing, to do a bit of packing herself. Jimmy, her husband, always kept his possessions neatly, in one place, a habit that irritated her, since her own managed to get themselves scattered over an acre or two.